


In the Mouth of the Monster

by SapphoIsBurning



Category: Whyborne and Griffin - Jordan L. Hawk
Genre: Canon Compliant, Deliberate Badfic, Fic within a Fic, M/M, Metafiction, Orgasm Denial, POV First Person, POV Griffin, detective fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 08:01:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2805383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphoIsBurning/pseuds/SapphoIsBurning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mysterious stranger hires Griffin Flaherty to review his fictional manuscript.  Griffin is drawn into the story, which seems oddly familiar...</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Mouth of the Monster

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hpstrangelove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hpstrangelove/gifts).



I stared down at the letter in my hands. It had come in with the early post. My dear companion Whyborne, our close friend Christine, and I had gathered for a leisurely Saturday breakfast at the home Whyborne and I shared.

DEAR SIR AND OR MADAM

I AM WRITING TO INQUIRE ABOUT YOUR SERVICES REVIEWING A MANUSCRIPT. I AM AN ASPIRING CRIME NOVELIST AND I HAVE WRITTEN A NOVEL I WOULD LIKE YOUR EXPERTISE. AS A DETECTIVE EXPERIENCED IN THE WAYS OF THE WORLD WOULD YOU BE ABLE TO REVIEW IT FOR ACCURACY. I AM WILLING TO PAY THE SUM OF ONE HUNDRED AMERICAN DOLLARS FOR YOUR SERVICES. PLEASE RESPOND AT YOUR CONVENIENCE.

YOURS SINCERELY,  
P. CHRISTIAN ENDERMAN IV, ESQ.

“One hundred dollars just for reviewing a manuscript?” Christine asked, mouth full of toast. “While you’re recovering from that bullet wound, I should say a job you don’t have to leave your study for would be just the thing. You can’t leave for the Yukon until the spring anyway.”

Whyborne examined the letter. “As long as he’s not asking you to review his butchery of the English language. ‘Sir and or madam’?”

“Whyborne, you of all people should know how much damage the right kind of manuscript can do,” I said in jest.

“Well, if it were in Aklo and sent to me we could be worried, but as it is, I’d say you should throw poor Mr. Enderman a bone. You do love dime novels. Why not help usher one more into the world?”

Why indeed. I wondered if this person had made inquiries with many detectives or had just singled me out because of my connection to various notorious cases as of late. 

Christine looked like she was trying to stifle a laugh. “Who knows, Griffin. It may be even better than it sounds.”

***

A parcel arrived for me the following Tuesday. Whyborne was at his office at the museum, and I was alone in the house catching up on my correspondence.

I untied the string binding the documents together; there was a bank draft for a down payment on my services as well as a thick typed manuscript. The title page read:

IN THE MOUTH OF THE MONSTER

A CASE FILE OF NOTED ADVENTURER AND RAKE PENDLETON PRENTISS, DETECTIVE

by PUTNEY CHRISTIAN ENDERMAN

Oh dear.

***  
It started like they often do (at least the less inventive ones). The brave, brilliant detective sat in his study cleaning his guns while his assistant Dr. George Nesbitt (the narrator) basked in his ruddy adventurer brilliance.

“HOW DID YOU EVER SOLVE THAT LAST CASE”, I ASKED PRENTISS. “YOU REALIZED THAT A WYVERN HAD MURDERED THE HEIRESS AND NOT HER JEALOUS BROTHER, ALL FROM ONE SINGLE SCALE.”

“TO BE FAIR MY DEAR DR. NESBITT, IT WAS A LARGE SCALE,” PRENTISS REPLIED, CARESSING THE MUZZLE OF HIS REVOLVER.

A stranger entered their offices, seeking their services. He was searching for his brother, who had vanished mysteriously.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE A BEAR WOULD BREAK INTO OUR HOUSE AT NIGHT, SHRED MY BROTHER’S DRESSING GOWN, AND THEN MAKE OFF WITH HIS BODY,” THE MAN STAMMERED, LIP QUIVERING.

I paged ahead. Despite protestations from Dr. Nesbitt, Prentiss took the case.

WE WERE LED UP TO THE CRIME SCENE, A WELL-APPOINTED BEDROOM WITH A WIDE CANOPY BED. THE DRAPES WERE SHREDDED AND THE POSSESSIONS WERE KNOCKED ABOUT. A PICTURE WAS SHATTERED BESIDE THE BED.

I wondered to myself, despite my better judgment, what could have happened. It was ridiculous, really, a made-up case, but my instincts followed me everywhere. They should check under the bed! And question the servants!

PRENTISS WENT TO QUESTION THE SERVANTS AND LEFT ME TO CHECK UNDER THE BED.

Oh.

I ACCIDENTALLY PLACED MY HAND INTO A DISCARDED JAR OF PETROLEUM JELLY (THE THINGS I DO FOR MY LOVE OF MR. PRENTISS AND BELIEF IN HIS WORK) BEFORE I CAME UPON A LOCK OF FUR. IT APPEARED TO HAVE BEEN SWEPT UNDER THE DUST RUFFLE BY ACCIDENT, AND HAD BEEN TORN VIOLENTLY FROM SOMEONE OR SOMETHING. PERHAPS IT WAS THE DREADED CHUPACABRA, SUCKER OF GOATS, THAT HAD MENACED US SINCE OUR ADVENTURE IN MONTERREY.

I REPLACED THE LID ON THE JAR AND PUT IT AND THE FUR SCRAP INTO MY VALISE.

I was drawn into the story despite myself. I had never thought to charge to read other people’s tales of adventure, ham-fisted as they might be, but I was enjoying the privilege. I was betting against the chupacabra, but you never know.

I took the manuscript upstairs and curled up on the divan in front of the fireplace.

Prentiss and Nesbitt tracked down a reported sighting of the brother in a dilapidated and unsavory part of town.

PRENTISS INSISTED THIS WAS WHERE THE INFORMANT WANTED TO MEET, BUT DESPITE MY TRUST I REMAINED SKEPTICAL OF BATHHOUSE ROW. AFTER OUR LAST ENCOUNTER THERE, I WAS DUBIOUS ANYTHING GOOD COULD COME FROM STRANGE ENCOUNTERS WITH MEN IN ALLEYS.

Bathhouse Row? Last encounter? I thought to myself. I felt a bit hot under the collar.

A MAN EXITED AN UNMARKED DOOR. HE LOOKED AROUND QUICKLY, THEN APPROACHED US. HE WAS DISHEVELED, BUT MATCHED THE SHARD OF PHOTOGRAPH HIS BROTHER HAD GIVEN US.

“YOU. HE SENT YOU TO FIND ME.” HE POINTED AT US. “TELL HIM I LOVE HIM BUT HE MUST STOP. I CAN’T BE WITH HIM ANYMORE. I’M A MONSTER…THERE’S NO TURNING BACK. I DID IT ALL…” A GROWL ESCAPED THE MAN’S THROAT. “NO, IT’S HAPPENING AGAIN!”

AS I STARED IN HORROR THE MAN’S SKIN BEGAN TO RIPPLE AND HIS FEATURES ELONGATED. HE HUNCHED AS HIS LEGS BENT BACKWARDS. FUR SPROUTED EVERYWHERE ON HIS SKIN, AND HIS FEATURES TWISTED INTO A LUPINE SNOUT. A WEREWOLF! HOW SIMPLE! I SHOULD HAVE SEEN THIS COMING.”

Of course, a werewolf! But, brothers? All the relationships in this book felt more intense than I was expecting from the genre.

I raced to turn the pages. The werewolf gave them chase; Prentiss fired his revolver uselessly at the monster (which I could relate to). He began to wrestle the beast hand-to-hand to let Nesbitt escape.

Nesbitt returned to the home they shared, not knowing whether his partner was alive or dead. If the book is named after Prentiss, he has to survive the thing, right? I would be terribly disappointed if he didn’t; that would be unfair.

IT WAS LATE THAT NIGHT THAT I HEARD A POUNDING AT THE DOOR. I ANSWERED IT IN MY DRESSING GOWN, THE MAID HAVING GONE HOME FOR THE EVENING. THERE STOOD MY DEAR PRENTISS, FILTHY AND HIS CLOTHES TATTERED. HE HAD ACQUIRED A GASH IN HIS ARM, BUT HE WAS IN ONE PIECE. MY HEART FELT STRANGELY AROUSED AT THE SIGHT OF HIM IN THIS STATE, WILD LIKE AN ANIMAL, ALL FOR MY SAKE. HE SAID NOTHING, BUT STARED INTO MY EYES WITH INTENSITY. I DREW HIM INTO THE PARLOR AND QUICKLY SHUT THE DOOR.

And with that I had reached the end of the manuscript. But that couldn’t be the end! What would happen next? And what was with all this “strangely aroused” business? I took out my pocketwatch. I could still write to the author by the evening post and request the rest of the manuscript.

It was then that I heard the door open downstairs. “Griffin?” I heard Whyborne call.

“I’m upstairs in the study,” I called down to him.

I heard him taking off his overcoat and padding up the stairs. “You might be interested to know that I met your Mr. Enderman today.”

“Really?” I felt my ears flush pink. Whyborne tolerated by love of these stories but I didn’t mean for him to get involved in this whole sordid editing business.

“Yes…he asked me to hand-deliver the last part of the manuscript. He was concerned about sending it through the post.”

“Really now.”

“Yes. I had a chance to read it on my walk home—I think you will find it very…stimulating.” Whyborne cracked a smile at that last word. Stimulating indeed.

I drew up my legs and he sat down with me. He took a few folded pages from his vest pocket and cleared his throat.

“As the door shut, Prentiss fell into my embrace. I held him closely, kissing him about the head.”

My eyebrows went up. I noticed that these last pages were hand-written instead of typed. Curious.

“A groan came from his throat. ‘Oh, my dear Nesbitt, I thought I’d never see you again.’ I felt the same. He pressed against me and I felt a hardness in the remains of his trousers; not his revolver this time for sure.

“Whyborne!”

“Hush, I’m reading. Ahem. Prentiss clutched at me, pushing the dressing gown off my shoulders, leaving me totally nude in the hallway. He grabbed me, thrusting forward until I hit the wall. My dear detective kissed me savagely, as if he were possessed. His teeth grazed my lips as I explored his mouth with my tongue. I became desperately hard against him—”

I felt my own prick begin to stiffen hearing such talk come out of my lover. I reached for my trouser to adjust myself, but Whyborne batted my hand away. “No,” he growled, giving me a lascivious glance. “You must let me read.” I felt even more aroused being ordered around by him, but I folded my hands and sat very still while he returned to the story.

“He turned me roughly to face the wall. ‘I must have you,’ he rasped. I felt him clutching at my entrance, pushing with his wet, slick fingers. (He must have gotten the petroleum jelly from my valise.) I moaned. ‘Take me, do it now.’ I felt him unsheathe his member and press it tight against me before he pushed in, hard and fast and to the hilt. He fucked me violently against the wall before I felt weak in the knees and dropped down. He continued to hold me, fucking me bent over on the floor, my hands clasped into the oriental rug. I felt myself clenching, my scrotum begin to tighten as I cried out, ‘Yes my love,’ as I spilled onto the carpet and he moved in me with brutality and lust. Moonlight streamed in through a crack in the window and I glanced over my shoulder at him in his beastly glory. It was then that I saw the bite mark on his shoulder, red and oozing. His eyes wide, I saw his lengthened canines. My love was a monster; he had been bitten by the monster and now he was inside me, more monster than man.”

“Enough!” I cried. “Ival, please!”

Whyborne put the papers down. “Go to the bedroom and prepare yourself. You mustn’t touch your member until I say. Turn off all the lights.”

The man didn’t have to ask me twice. My eyes dilated with lust as I nearly tripped over myself to get to the bedroom, strip, find the jar of petroleum jelly and hit the lights. I began to finger myself as I heard the sound of his clothes hitting the floor. The longer we had been lovers, the more inhibitions he dropped, and I was relieved he had finally given up his habit of neatly folding his clothes before sex.

The bedroom door slammed open and he stalked in. “Oh, Ival,” I gasped. He grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet, pushing me hard up against our closet door. “Yes, like this…ohh.”

My forehead pressed against the cool wood as I felt him grasp my shoulders tightly, digging his thumbs into me. “How do you feel about being buggered by a monster,” he breathed into my ear. Then I felt him bite me roughly on the neck.

He thrust into me with no more warning, clutching and biting and slamming into me with animal lust. I could only moan wordlessly, my hands against the door.

“Griffin, it’s time. Come for me. Paint the wall,” he spoke. I grasped my member and with a few short pulls I was climaxing with ferocity, shouting his name. I felt him move in me and with a howl he came too.

We rested for a moment, panting and catching our breath. “Please, the bed…” I gasped.

Without another word he dragged us both there, clutching me in his arms.

I lay staring at the ceiling. “Putney Christian Enderman, eh? And you met this fellow at the museum?” I asked.

“Of course,” said Whyborne.

“Did Christine put you up to this?”

He laughed gently. “It was her idea, at first. I was talking about our encounter with that Simon Feximal and she suggested I take a stab at writing a casefile about us. Then I dared her to do it herself…we found our encounters too hard to describe, so we made up these fellows. The museum had just purchased some typewriters, so we disguised our handwriting. She wrote the beginning, and…I wrote the end. I thought you might enjoy the twist.”

“Not bad for a beginner. Some of the characterization is a little obvious, but not bad. And…”

“And?”

“And I was riveted by the ending.”


End file.
